


Possession

by RyMagnatar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Pale-Red Vacilliation, Xeno, celibacy vow broken, disjointed story telling in a way, interspecies relations, it really wasnt supposed to be like that, shifting pov's, tagged "triggers", tagged triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 02:46:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RyMagnatar/pseuds/RyMagnatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of all the humans, all the trolls, there is only one that makes Kankri Vantas angy, furious, vicious and makes him seethe in disgust and hatred. He attempts to assuage the damage with a new moirail, but that really just makes things worse.</p><p>#tw: be careful with your quadrants kankri #tw: you might bite off more than you can chew</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blacker than Pitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ribbonelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ribbonelle/gifts).



Perhaps you didn’t expect it

though honestly what could you expect?

For too many years to count there had only been the twelve of them, and different renditions of those twelve. Your twelve (#tw: possessive wording), including yourself.

And then the second twelve.

And then the four humans.

And then

the last four humans.

By the arrival of the last group, you had adjusted, you had gotten used to the new faces, the new races, the new species. You had gotten used to everything

except for the way that Dirk Strider looked at you. 

It wasn’t like the first Strider, who had twitches of emotion in his mouth, his eyebrows, who gestured with his hands and shoulders and spoke with his body no-

Dirk was

Dirk was ice. Stone. He was a glacier of emotion. His smiles where universal and unnerving in that quality. He folded his arms defensively when he aggrieved with his words. He gestured out with his hands when he spoke only about himself.

He was backwards. He was sideways.

He was in your face and yet too far away and

yet

…

What could you do?

Your lectures to him were met with a nod and then a quip here, a line there. A loop of logic that sends you reeling, stumbling over your own words. He frustrated your thoughts. He challenged them. And then he smirked at you like it was just a game. 

He picked up your trigger tags and ran with them. And ran. And ran. Half the time it felt like he would have whole conversations with himself in the tags alone. He took them seriously and then within the same breath tagged the use of contractions or censoring or the use of tags themselves. 

And for the first time in your life

and possibly your death

no definitely in your death

you

**_hated_ **

someone.

And there were just too many problems surrounding that to give you any hint of where to start. 

* * *

When Kankri came to you for a moiraillegiance, you agreed in a heartbeat. You didn’t know what had spurred this on in him, whether it had been something you did or something that happened to him but you were damn glad for it. You had always wanted him in a quadrant and were glad to have finally finished dancing around it for eons.

Your first feelings jam went three degrees of sideways and four degrees backwards, though, when he spent the whole time on one damn subject. 

You had never heard such a vivid, venomous rant fall from his lips before. Each slur, and damn did he use every slur he knew, was tagged appropriately, but that didn’t stop him. On and on he went until it was more than plain that what he needed wasn’t a moirail, but an auspistice.

But hell if you were going to give up the paps and shooshes and cuddles and the ability to touch him and have him burrow his angry little self against your chest in a perfect mimicry of how you saw his angry little descendant act before just because he needed one thing and asked for another. Moirail was what you wanted, not auspisticim. At least not with Kankri.

After the jam that left him exhausted and ready to be left alone, you returned to your newly made matesprit. You smiled when he ran his fingers over your fin and leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth. You looked at him in a sort of awe as you asked him how he, your magnificent Dirk Strider, had managed to make Kankri, of all trolls, blacker than pitch for him.

He had just slid his other hand down past the waistband of your pants and told you he had a plan for that. He said he needed your help.

You said yes without even bothering to find out what he needed.

* * *

You walked up to Kankri and could see already that he was on edge. Even dead you could see where his eyes were, how they were following you. You had a knack for that sort of business, after all. 

You only had to say a simple, untagged, greeting to him before he launched into a tirade against you, arms folded tightly over his slender chest. You listened to him long enough to watch his chin lift and his eyes begin to close. You watched long enough to listen to him get into the full swing of his words before you leaned in.

You leaned in close enough that he fumbled his words, staring at you, at his reflection in your glasses. When he demands that you back out of his bubble, and when you deny his request, he defaults to a speech.

You literally suck the breath out of him, your mouth barely half an inch from his. 

He squeaks into silence, face so red he almost looks human. He’s mortified. Stumbles back and shouts about his vow to celibacy.

You smirk. You laugh. What is celibacy to a fool who can’t get it up except an excuse to keep others from thinking he was broken? What is celibacy to an asshole who can’t get anyone to stick around long enough to get into his pants except an excuse to keep them from ever trying? 

And then you tag it appropriately. #tw: broken oath #tw: farce of a vow #tw: unwanted asshole #tw: dysfunctional junk

He retaliated with his new quadrant fill. A moirailship. He looks so damn proud.

So an pretentious asshole has one friend who tolerates him a little more than the rest? #tw: What a joke.

He attempts to turn your words back on you but they fall of your back like water on a seagull’s feathers. You slowly, achingly slowly, arch an eyebrow.

Somehow, in some beautiful, insane, vicious way, that riles him up even more. He breaks the personal space that he built up. He gets in your face, hands down at his sides with hands clenched so tightly into fists you swear he’ll slice open his own skin.

He says you know nothing of what you’re doing.

You tell him he couldn’t even blackrom if he tried.

He declares that you are uncultured swine.

You tell him he doesn’t have the stones for it. 

He seethes that you are triggering him.

You tell him that he’s got nothing to be triggered back to.

He swings his hand up to hit you. When you catch his wrist, his eyes widen, staring at his own hand like it’s a foreign object. Just those two words, in context with him, send shivers down your spine. 

You hold onto his wrist tightly. You tell him he doesn’t have the cojones for this. You lean forward and for a second he leans back. Then he leans forwards and he growls and it fills the air around you two like a beautiful black courtship soundtrack.  You tell him that you will possess him.

He dares you to try it.

He forgets his tags.

* * *

You are….

You are…?

You are Kankri Vantas and

you have a kismesis? who is human and he

he is 

impossibly deft with his untroll like hands and

he is

the most disgusting, vile creature you have ever had the utter and complete misfortune of running into. And you have known twelve? twenty three? thirty? other trolls (#tw: memory loss?)

But when he puts his hands down your pants and grinds your ass back against his alien bulge you

forget

that you have a…what was it?

Because your kismesis is cruel and whispers in your ears that cloth is a non-issue and promises to yourself are only worth it if you keep them all the time. 

Because your kismesis is vile and somehow coerced your moirail to stand, no, press himself against the front of you and steal your damn breath away. 

(#tw: pale-to-red vacillation #tw: matesprit infidelity #tw: your kismesis is an absolute bastard)

Because your kismesis has not just stripped you, but used a damn sword to slice away at your clothing. Scraps of your sweater hang from your shoulders, exposing you and covering you at the same time. Your split pants are pooled at your ankles.

Because you can still feel the cold steel on the inside of one thigh and you can’t believe that the keening noise that you heard actually came from your throat.

Because when your nook is full of a bulge you're used to and your waste chute is filled with a bulge (#tw: human anatomy #tw: cock?) that you’re not used to 

you end up screaming and though some of it is pain most of it is

red filled

black edged

pleasure

with one hand clawing at shoulders in front of you and the other clawing at a waist behind you

you forget what it is to think, let alone breathe and you swear that those lewd, disgraceful, shameful sounds that would make Damara blush are not coming from your throat

Because your kismesis discovered where you were broken inside and took it upon himself to fill you up in ways you had never even dreamed of

Because you were broken and 

because  your feet aren’t touching the ground and

because they are saying your name two voices in two years and

because you know 

you know deep into your core 

into all that makes you you

that your kismesis has placed his brand upon you

and you can’t

even with all this

overwhelming stimulation

you cannot reach a climax until he whispers into your ear

“Kankri, you belong, to  _me.”_


	2. He's The One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's the only one that can make you feel like this, like that.  
> You hate him.   
> You need him.  
> You're so glad that he seems to need you too.

You think his aspect really should be void or space because he drops out of no where. You’ll be standing, waiting for a friend to return, or walking down a hallway and suddenly look up and there he is. Leaning against a wall or a tree or just standing  to the side with his arms folded over his chest and the corner of his mouth tilted up.

And you hiss under your breath, the words formulating in your mind, on your tongue because you have to be prepared for this human. Approaching him off your guard will give him just enough rope to hang you on and by the end of it you’ll be grateful for it. You abhor that. He is not allowed to simply make you feel things. That is not his privilege. 

You approach because if you walk away, you’ve learned, it only makes it worse. 

(dizzying and gasping for breath with your back arching so much that your shoulders, head and ass are the only thing touching the wall. you had no footing but for a few toes on the left. the hard edge of his shoulder dug into your thigh. his face was at the junction between your legs. you could only dig your fingers into his hair and keep him there. you could only keep him close. you couldn’t think at all)

He waits for you to arrive, leaning against the wall, watching you the whole time.

You stop in front of him, out of arms reach. You know just how far he can reach with his long arms. It doesn’t matter anyway, though. If there was an aspect for speed it would be his.

But no. He had heart.

How could this bastard have the aspect of heart, when he clearly had none? You are aware that it could be just your bias that discolors him so. He must have some semblance of humanity within him if not only Cronus was to love him but he were to maintain so many friends. And yet when he pushes at you, even non-verbally, all you can think is that he is self-righteous, entitled and cruel. 

So you tell him so.

Your words lead to his words. Your tags lead to his tags. The first mistake is yours when you take a step forward. He crosses the distance until he has unfold his arms and hook his thumbs in his pockets so his arms don’t touch your chest. You know, in the back of your mind, that this challenging, that the progression here is all your fault. Standing this close to him, looking up into glasses that reflect your own face back at you, you see a distortion of yourself. There’s a creature in yourself that you’ve bound in celibacy, chained in words and muffled with politeness that he has found.

And unlike any other who sees who you are- instead of looking surprised, or knowingly smug at your inner beast- he picks up a stick and pokes at you.

Again and again.

Poking at you. Feeding your flames. Taunting you. 

Again and again. 

He always comes back to you. 

(you don’t wonder why. you have a brand of black ink on your hip. he has claimed you and you are ashamed and you are proud of it)

In this conflict it is you that aggresses. You push or punch or, your personal favorite, kick him in the shin, and that crosses the line drawn in the sand. That tips it from words and invasion of personal space into a dimension of physical altercation.  You hate turning to violence, hate that he incites that in you, and yet it feels so good when you see that grimace of pain, that grunt of breath the first time you catch him off guard and kick him so hard in the shin that later, on his bare leg, you see you’ve scuffed skin from his body.

Yet this time he has plans. You can tell because things don’t escalate in a reasonable way. Oh no. He grabs you and pushes you up against a wall, with your back to him. He has a plan and you will do everything in your power to foil it. You have done so.

The belt you wear hidden under your sweater is so tight its near painful. It’s reinforced with wire, to keep him from cutting through, and has a damn lock on it. When he feels it, he almost turns you back around.

He stops, his hands on your hips, and you can hear the gears turning in his head. You’ve foiled him. You’re sure of it.

Until he chuckles in your ear. Until his body presses against yours and his hands slide down your thighs. His body says the words that his mouth doesn’t.  _I will make you regret wearing that belt_. 

You snarl at him.

Words have abandoned you. Words have abandoned him. 

His hands move achingly slowly over your body. Your hands are pressed against the wall, curled tight into fists. You could push him off, you could fight him away, but you are his. And he is yours. 

And you both need this.

His hands never stop. They never slip under your sweater, though they so easily could. He feels your chest, your ribs, your nipples, he feels your stomach, waist, hips, he feels  your thighs, your crotch all with the layer of clothing between him and you.

As you rock back against him, you feel his growing arousal. It isn’t a writhing mass like any troll, no, it’s a hard edge that you crave. You groan when he pushes his hips back against you. You hiss when he grinds you up against the wall, unforgiving hardness against your crotch, unrelenting hardness against your ass. 

And still he never slips a finger under your clothes. 

He doesn’t have to. He is the only one who makes you feel naked with just a look. He’s the only one who can make  you want to claw your way out of your clothing. 

He’s the only one that could make you fumble at your own belt, frustrated with the lock, forgetting that the key is around your neck. 

He’s the only one who could palm you through your jeans, fingers rubbing down at your nook and the heel of his palm rubbing  your bulge’s base at the same time, and 

He’s the only one who can command you to cum, even with a tagged warning, hiss it right into your ear and

He’s the only one who can make you wish you could take off your pants, even as you arch your back through your climax and drench yourself in your own fluids.

…

He’s the only one that can get you kneeling on the floor, with your pants a sodden, cooling mess, to suck on his cock after.

**Author's Note:**

> this is what happens when i read two hours worth of cronkri


End file.
